Twilight Zone

Tick, Tick, Tick, Tock

December 31, 2015 by fpdorchak

Years ago my wife and I had come from the county fair, in Calhan, Colorado, and stopped at this road-side diner. It is exactly as I described it in the story, down to the stencil-work and Clay Walker tunes. This is where I was inspired to write this tale…the cool and cozy microcosm of life we experienced in this diner on that hot summer afternoon was so unto itself it was separate from the rest of reality.

And then there was the meatloaf.

Typical restaurant meatloaf is extremely salty to me, but this was the first time I’d ever had meatloaf at a restaurant where it wasn’t—I liked it so much I’d ordered an extra meal to go.

So…meatloaf, microcosms, and messin’ with reality. That’s how I roll.

“Tick, Tick, Tick, Tock” originally appeared in The Black Sheep, issue #64.

Tick, Tick, Tick, Tock

“Table for two?” the hostess asked somberly, escorting Tom and Lea Colbert to a booth in the very rear of the restaurant. It was a late mid-July afternoon and the air-conditioned interior felt like a life-or-death oasis. The couple nodded thanks, taking their seats as the hostess deposited menus then quickly returned to the front of the restaurant.

“Is it even worth it?” Lea asked her husband.

“How would you rather go? Out in that heat?”

Lea said nothing, mechanically opening her menu. “I don’t think I could even eat anything. Look. Look around. Is anyone else eating?”

Tom opened his menu, and took in the restaurant without making it obvious. She was right. Everyone either skulked, stared blankly into oblivion, or quietly sobbed. There wasn’t much dinner conversation. Several lone individuals, cowboys and cowgirls, simply sat and stared straight ahead into the western-motifed walls. The waitresses (they didn’t seem to call them “servers” out this way) all congregated at the front of the restaurant around the white lattice-work behind the counter, where a hand-burned sign proclaimed “$Cashier$.” Off to the right of that were the restrooms, equally proclaiming “Cowboys” and “Cowgals.” Tom’s gaze fell across to the dinner special written up on a whiteboard. Meatloaf special, it said, mashed potatoes, veggie, diner roll, and a salad. $5.50. Clay Walker played quietly in the background, from overhead speakers. There were pictures of many famous and not-so-famous cowfolk across every wall, ranches and horses, as well as a stencil that traveled the entire length of the room with pictures of cowboy boots, spurs, horses, and that same old, bleached-and-weather-beaten steer skull. Behind his wife, Tom saw quite the elderly couple not talking, partially eaten food sitting on the table between them. Bibles were open before the both of them and each clenched each other’s hands. Inside this small, hole-in-the-wall western diner off the beaten path all the curtains were drawn shut. It was as if nothing existed outside this tiny diorama.

“I’m just not hungry,” Lea said, closing her menu and carefully laying it on the table before her. She leaned over it and buried her face in her hands.

“Well, I’m hungry and meatloaf sounds good. If we’re gonna die, I might as well do it on a full stomach.”

“How can you eat?” Lea lowered her tone to an intense whisper. “How can you eat at a time like this?”

Tom calmly set down his menu.

“I don’t know, honey…all I know is my stomach’s growling and I feel shaky. What difference does it make if I die starving or well fed? If the cook’s cooking, I’m ordering.”

Tom saw tears emerge from his wife’s eyes. He reached across to her, but she continued crying, her shoulders shuddering.

“Honey…honey,” he said, “there’s nothing we can do…we just have to live our last day like any other. What else can we do?”

“I know,” Lea blurted, suddenly realizing the other patrons were eyeing her, including the group of cowboys and cowgirls at the large table up front. The small family to her right. They all stared…knowingly…at her.

“I’m sorry. You’re right.” Lea pulled some napkins from the holder and dabbed her eyes. “You’re right. There’s nothing we can do about it except what we’re doing.” She cleared her throat. Blew her nose.

“Hi, folks,” the waitress said, showing up at their table with glasses of water in each hand. “Are you all right?” the waitress asked Lea.

Lea nodded, composing herself.

“Yes. About as fine as anyone can be, right now, I guess. Thanks for asking.”

The waitress smiled warmly and pulled the pencil from her beehived hair. “All we can do is what we can do,” she said, reaching out to Lea with the hand holding the pencil and resting it for a moment on her shoulder before retracting it. “Now, what can I get you folks to drink?”

“Um, cmmm, I’ll have iced tea,” Lea said.

“Same,” Tom added.

“We have a meatloaf special today. And I must say it’s really good—but I’m supposed to tell you that there’s green peppers in it.” The waitress smoothed away loose strands of hair behind her ears. Her hand trembled just a little. Barely at all. She was a pretty woman, in her forties, with a slim cowgirl’s figure pleasantly stuffed into her Wranglers. Lea started to tear again, when Velma (her name was on her name tag) again reached out to her. “Honey…it’s okay. When the Lord’s ready for us, we just have to answer His call.”

Lea recomposed herself, again wiping her eyes. She smiled blithely.

“Just get us two of your dinner specials, okay?” Tom said. Velma jotted that down and departed.

“How does she know there’s a God? We’ve all seen it, haven’t we? The same dreams? Over and over again. Night after night. It’s been on TV, books have been written about it. Psychologists have analyzed it the world over, but nothing—not one thing—has been done about it. It’s today, and there’s not a damned thing anyone can do!”

“Hon, please try to keep you voice dow—”

“Why? Tell, me, why, Tom? What’s the point? We’re all gonna die—the dreams told us so. The strong ones, they took their own lives—but look at us. We couldn’t even do that—”

“Honey, please,” Tom said. “Everyone else is going through the same thing. There’s no need to get everyone all stirred up. We have to go sometime, don’t we? What difference does it make if we go in our sleep, by old age—or in some apocalyptic Götterdämmerung? Now, we’ve done the best we could with our lives, we’ve atoned…each of us in our own ways…there’s nothing more we can do. We’ve all made our peace, and we’ve had two years to do it. Every one of us. The world over.”

But, here, Tom began to tear, whispering.

“We have to be strong, dammit. For others.”

“But what difference does it make!” Lea again exploded, and this time she shot to her feet. “We all made the jokes at first, didn’t we?” she said looking to her captive audience.Even those who’d been quietly sobbing stopped and looked up.

“All of us…we thought, ‘oh, something must be in the water,’ or something similarly stupid. We joked about it. Then…then we sought religious and philosophical help, because that’s what we do in times of stress, even if we aren’t practicing about it.”

Lea looked everybody in the eye, including Velma and the other waitresses…the cook, who poked his head out from the grill.

“We all made amends with everyone, tried to make up for all the little and not-so-little wrongs we’d done. Helped out those in need of any help. Did our best to be perfect little Humans—but it didn’t seem to make any difference, did it? We still had those goddamned dreams—those nightmares—every night, didn’t we? Don’t we? And today’s the day…the day we alll pay the Piper. And how can all of you just sit there like this? Like stupid…pathetic…little mice, caught in a trap?”

“What else are we going to do?” asked the wife from the small family to her right, huddled together like frightened puppies. Her eyes pleaded, searching for an answer, anything…but Lea had none. She just stared back.

“Mommy…” the woman’s daughter peeled, “I’m scared.”

“Please, ma’am…please,” the mom pleaded.

Tom got up and went to Lea. He put his arm around her and brought her back to her chair. He sat her back down, and she again began to quietly weep. Tom took up a chair beside her and grasped her hands….

Tom and Lea just stared at their food. Two meatloaf specials on the table before them now cold. Iced teas also untouched, but leaking condensation down the length of their glasses onto the table.

“Tom…how do we know this isn’t a dream…a lucid one?”

Tom took his time answering, noticing that the late afternoon was quickly turning into early evening. The light outside the windows had changed…became darker, more…solemn.

There just wasn’t enough time.

“I guess we don’t do we? That’s what some of the experts were saying. That we could all just be dreaming this and we’d all wake up to find our world the same as it ever was. Sane, rational, still there…what we remember.”

“I’ve had some pretty real dreams before,” Lea said. “Before all this, I mean. Where I couldn’t tell the dream from reality. People thought I was crazy—”

“Not anymore,” Tom said, snorting.

“No, not anymore, huh. Well, we’ve lived a good life, haven’t we? You and me?”

Tom smiled, reaching out to her/ Twenty years of married love and emotion immediately welled up inside him. “Yes, we have, my love. The best life we could ever live. We always did our best, even before…all this.”

“Yes, we did.”

“We just have to look at it as…time to go.”

The two sat silently for a moment, squeezing each other’s hands before Lea continued.

“But, Tom, I know I’ve asked this before…but, really, what if this is all a dream? I mean it. This is all a dream and we’re gonna wake up, you and me. Say this is my dream and in your sleep, you’re not even dreaming about this—but I am—and we’ll both wake up tomorrow and you’ll not remember your dream, but I’ll remember mine—this dream—and tell you all about it, and nothing’ll be wrong. Nothing. Everything will be as it normally is, I mean, like we’re used to?”

“Honey, that’s been said before, you know that—”

“Yes, but if it is my dream, then it’s all just me, don’t you get it? Or you. Don’t you see? This is my dream and when I wake up, none of this will matter…it will all have just been in my head. No one else’s—the world isn’t going to explode or whatever it is that’s supposed to happen, because it’s all in my head and no one else’s.”

Tom stopped.

Yes, she had brought this up once or twice. As had others. And, yes, books had been published on this premise more than once over the past two years.

But…what if she was right?

What if it was all a dream, her dream—or his dream? What if all this—the dream of the dream—was all…a dream? A lucid one, where he (or she) was just wide awake and aware and that just made it all the more frightening? And Lea just thought it was her dream, because that’s how dreams work…that’s the weirdness of them…he’s dreaming, it’s his point of view, and she’s just a part of his dream…just like sometimes he’s in hers. But if he was (also?) dreaming it, was it really Lea’s dream—or his? How could he be aware in Lea’s dream? It had to be his dream, not Lea’s. And further, if he was aware he was dreaming and the dream was so intense and scary—and he knew this—why not change it?

“You know…you’re right. We don’t really know, do we? It could all be a dream of a nasty dream, and if it is, we can change it, because we’re aware of it.”

Tom stood up. Took in the restaurant. Everyone stared at him. He stared back.

Country music continued to play over the speakers. Somebody he didn’t recognize.

The sky was now totally dark outside (wasn’t it just twilight?). The curtains closed. This was their own little microcosm and it did feel different. Something was suddenly different about the whole affair. Not just the place, but also what supported this place…life itself…was the only way he could describe it. And he was conscious that everyone was still staring at him as if he was going to save the world—which he was, because it was his dream. Lea had said it was hers, but she was just saying that because she was in his dream and that’s how dreams worked. You never really knew—until you did. Then everything just fell into place.

“Okay…okay, everybody…,” Tom announced, arms upraised as he walked away from Lea and their table and into the center of the restaurant, “she’s right. She’s right—can’t you feel it? You’re all in a dream, my dream—all of you.”

The cook and waitresses stopped talking and—holding hands—came out from behind the lattice-work.

“Think about it. How could this be anything else? Nothing like this ever happens in real life—it’s all boring and drab. Dull. Practical. Sometimes even downright brutal—but always, always the prime directive has been that nothing like this ever happens.

“Only in science fiction and fantasy.

“Books and movies.

“This is all dream world stuff.

“Armageddon? The end of the world? The world never ends…sure, it gets nasty, wars come and go…but it never ends. It only did once, if you believe in the Bible, but wasn’t there also something about a promise that God would never do that again? So, if it’s all true…my wife’s correct—this is all a dream, but it’s my dream, and not her’s…and you’re all in that dream. So, if this is the case—”

“Sir, this has all been talked about before,” a cowboy said, pushing back his wide-brimmed hat. “And what about Reve—”

“Of course it’s all been said before—because it’s my dream! But that’s exactly what I’m trying to say! There’s no real time in dreams, everyone knows that—years can end up being mere minutes. Listen to what I’m saying! If this is all in my head and it’s not reality then why do we have to live with it, right? We can change it. Each and every one of us—”

“But, if it’s your dream, then why do we have to do anything?” another asked.

“Don’t you see? Everyone knows dream logic never makes any sense—except in dreams—so go with it. This is my dream, so I’m telling all of you to go along with it! We’re not all going to die because I’m not going to allow that to happen.

“I’m saying, right here, right now that this is my dream and I’m taking control.

“I’m saying we live. All of us. And that we’ll wake up in the morning, refreshed and ready to meet the day in all its beauty and splendor!” he said, spinning around, arms upraised higher, “A day like any other day! Like we’re used to! If it isn’t a dream, then we all die with smiles on our faces, but if it is…if it is, then we change a bad outcome for a good one.”

Everyone continued to stare at him.

“Come on, people! What do we have to lose? Take control!”

The quietness was slowly replaced with handfuls of intimate conversations. Tom watched as people hugged and kissed each other, but more importantly, he saw renewed hope. People, finally, had hope, again, where they hadn’t had any for two years.

He smiled, returning to his wife.

“Why isn’t this my dream?” she asked.

“That’s the beauty of it, hon—it is. But it’s also mine. Whether it’s yours, mine, or the cook’s, it’s still everyone’s dream. The dream is dreaming as well as the dreamer! Credit doesn’t matter. We’re the only thing that matters—the now,” he said, taking hold of both her hands and kissing them, “dream with me, honey. We can do this!”

Everyone closed their eyes and many mumbled their desires over and over and over…but all concentrated with their hearts and souls…upon lives they wanted to live.

To live.

A better life. For all.

Beautiful homes, with beautiful yards and beautiful pets and kids.

Beautiful birds. Singing.

Beautiful trees whispering in balmy summer breezes.

No wars, peace everywhere…love and plenty for all….

And Clay Walker continued to belt out his tunes overhead. People dreamed about the way it used to be, only better…simpler problems with simpler solutions. Simpler times….

Outside flashed a brilliant, silent explosion that was gone the instant it ignited…and with it, all the world that had been known and loved. All of it…down to the last atom.

All the people…all the animals…all the dirt and trees. All the insects and birds. All the hate and love. All the oceans, the mountains, the stars…

Everything.

And, except for everyone in this one diner, reality…all of existence…simply ceased to b

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Dark Was The Hour

December 24, 2015 by fpdorchak

Going Home. By L Eaton (Snowy Train Tracks - 20150321_130326 [CC BY-SA 2.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0], via Wikimedia Commons). — Going Home. By L Eaton (Snowy Train Tracks – 20150321_130326 [CC BY-SA 2.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0%5D, via Wikimedia Commons).

In 2004 The Gazette newspaper had put out a call to write stories for their Christmas short story contest. They required certain themes in the stories, like trains and Colorado and snow. This was the first and only time I remember “writing to spec”; it’s not something I like doing. But I did. I submitted. It didn’t place.

But where did the story idea itself come from? There was definitely the train imagery from the Twilight Zone’s “A Stop at Willoughby“…but there had also been some media coverage about Fallujah at the time that also had something to do with it. In any event, I love these kinds of stories, whether it’s Willoughby, “The 7th is Made up of Phantoms,” or my own: “Tail Gunner” and “Etched in Stone” (which will post Feb 26, 2016). They reach into me and just grab me. Make me, well, tear up….

When I wrote “Dark Was The Hour,” I’d contacted a nearby Marine Corps recruiting station and talked to a handful of marines…even got a couple of them to read it. I wanted to use the right terminology, the right descriptions, get the right “feel” to the story. Those marines were: Sergeant Sharp, Corporal Hughes, Private First Class Fox. That’s all the information I have left on them. Again that was in 2004. I often wonder about them…how they’re doing. I remember one of them was actually chomping at the bit to get “over there”; I think it was PFC Fox. I hope they’re all still alive and well.

This story was published in the December 2007 issue of Apollo’s Lyre.

Dark Was The Hour

A slight chill radiated inward from the window as Frank Bishop stared out through his accusatory reflection into the snowy night. He rocked back and forth as the train gently cradled him through the high Colorado mountain passages with its comforting ratcheting sounds and motion. He inhaled the scent of leather and polished wood—nostalgia.

Fallujah sucked was the nicest way he could put it and the fact that he’d left parts of himself back there didn’t help matters.

“Ticket, please?” the Conductor asked.

Frank jumped, shooting a hand to his side.

Of course he no longer carried his Beretta nine mil and of course this man wasn’t a threat.

He gave the conductor his ticket.

“Thank you, sir,” the Conductor said. “Next stop, Idaho Springs!” The Conductor smiled an odd little smile Frank found unnerving and left. Frank closed his eyes, allowing the lulling metallic Ta-tun–Ta-tun, Ta-tun–Ta-tun of the train to

Fallujah.

A name he hoped he’d never—ever—have to speak or hear again.

But he still heard the

Explosions. All around him. His ears rung, his eyes swam, and his head pounded from the slight concussion. Lieutenant Bishop popped his head back up over the battered cinder block wall. Small-arms fire came quick and well-directed. He ducked back down.

“Sir! We really need to—”

“I know!” Bishop shouted back to the platoon sergeant. He wiped sweat from his eyes with bruised and battered hands caked in dried blood and powder burns. The cacophony and smell of rocket-propelled grenades, spent mortar rounds, and death filled the air. The Fog of War.

“I’ll head off to the left—there,” the lieutenant said, pointing, “and you guys nail ‘em with everything we—”

“Sir, you know you’re—”

“What do you want me to do? Leave him there? You can see him as well as I can! I’m not leaving him behind.”

The Marine sergeant passed on the word to the rest of the platoon.

Bishop took a deep breath, looked to his men, then

ran his hands through his hair. It’d been a while since he’d been on this train. The last time had been when he’d been nine—was that right? His folks had taken them all on a Christmas ride between home—Idaho Springs—and Denver. Just before the car crash that had claimed them.

Had he made that up—or was that the concussion talking? His head still felt fuzzy. All that shelling…all that….

God, it felt so good to do nothing. To just sit back and relax. Look out at the dark snow-covered landscape like some Hitchcockian movie. His dad had really loved Hitch.

A reflection in the window passed quickly behind him, and

Bishop spun around, his still smoking and spent M-16A4 useless at his feet. Nine mil already in hand, he pulled his KA-BAR combat knife up before him and in one swiftly efficient movement took out the hostile who’d lunged for him. Another was close behind, but Bishop dispatched him just as efficiently. Breathing heavily, he quickly secured the room, sheathed the knife, and grabbed the dying marine’s wrist. He looked to the wrist.

Something was wrong.

No time to think about it, he turned to leave when there was a tremendous flash of heat and noise and something ungodly kicked him in the very seat of his soul and launched him bodily into a wall. The next thing Bishop knew, he was

crying. Something wasn’t right. Why was he crying? He was going home, home for good. He was no use to the Corps any more. Had served his country. Had his decorations, which he couldn’t look at without considering the lives lost—and saved. He was going home to his parents and girl. Their black lab, Boomer. Going to make a new life, if that was at all possible these days.

But what about those left behind?

Who was gonna keep an eye on them? Keep them safe? His buddies. Hector—how was Hector? Had he made it? Hector Gonzalez

laid down a searing blast of cover fire around the lieutenant’s position. The lieutenant was still in there. Gonzalez had no choice. He couldn’t leave him. Additional hostiles were quickly overrunning their position.

Gonzalez hand-signaled the platoon to cover him.

Gear rattling, Gonzalez tucked in around the wall then made his way through the rubble. Once he got to the open twenty yards through which he had to sprint, he glanced back to his platoon. They kept up his cover fire. Gonzalez sprinted across the space and slammed his body against a wall. Just up ahead was Bishop. He wasn’t leaving him, not after all he’d done at his own expense. No way. He’d stayed behind to allow the rest of them exit…when the blast had come. Gonzalez cursed himself for allowing the lieutenant to order them off like that. All he could think of was

“I’m not supposed to be here, am I?” Bishop asked the Conductor.

“Of course you are, Son,” the Conductor reassured. “You’re going home. For Christmas. The best one ever.”

“But…”

The Conductor smiled.

Gonzalez had made it to the lieutenant. He was a mess. All he could tell for certain was that he was missing…parts. It’d hadn’t yet registered just what, in all the still-settling smoke and rubble, but he wasn’t…whole….

“Christmas…,” the lieutenant whispered, “Jea-nna….” His face was thrashed and bloodied.

“Lieutenant?” Gonzalez asked, but there was no more.

Gonzalez grabbed the lieutenant’s wrist and quickly pulled him from the rubble as more fire opened up on their position. He turned to leave, but lost his hold. He tried to regrip the lieutenant’s wrist, but only grabbed

Air.

Gone.

The lieutenant was

Gone.

Gonzalez spun around.

No body, no lieutenant. Only acrid ordnance stink and rubble.

“But he was—he was just—where’d”

he stood in the well of the exit stoop as the train came to its screeching halt.

“Have a great Christmas, Lieutenant!” the Conductor encouraged, smiling. He saluted Bishop.

Bishop turned and looked up to the conductor. Bishop was bloodied and covered in soot and grime and war in his desert cammies and gear. He still held his nine mil in one hand, KA-BAR in the other. He looked to the nine mil. Outside.

It snowed heavily.

He cast a momentary, dour smile back up to the Conductor, then carefully placed his weapons up at the Conductor’s feet. He stared at the instruments of personal destruction one last time…rubbed a wrist and worked his jaw…when a larger smile crossed his face. He uttered a single chuckle.

He looked back out into the dark, snowy Colorado winter before him.

It was always darkest before the light.

Bishop inhaled deeply of the cold, sweet, aromatic pine of the evergreen forest mixed in with train exhaust. Saw Christmas lights through the heavy snowfall he swore he could now actually hear—heard Christmas music?—when a hand reached in to him from outside the train.

“Welcome home, Son,” his father greeted.

Bishop again inhaled deeply, smiled…and stepped off the train.

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The Coming of Light

December 18, 2015 by fpdorchak

When The Nightfun Ends. (Image by Lienhard Schulz at the German language Wikipedia ([GFDL, http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html; CC-BY-SA-3.0,http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/], via Wikimedia Commons) — When The Nightfun Ends. (Image by Lienhard Schulz at the German language Wikipedia [GFDL, http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html; CC-BY-SA-3.0,http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/%5D, via Wikimedia Commons)

I don’t remember much about this story, except for the obvious inspiration, which I really can’t get into, because it’s part of the story itself. But it’ll be obvious.

But I’ve always been fascinated by “those things” and all their “incarnations.” And I really do think it would be fun to, well, “live among them.” There is so much more I’d love to say, and maybe after I post this story I will do another post about them all.

But, for now….

This was originally published in the October 1991 issue of Tyro #32/33.

The Coming of Light

Barrett Bartholomew James awoke, groggily.

In fact, he wasn’t at all sure he was actually quite yet awake, but more in that in-between, graying state between sleep and wakefulness. There was something entirely odd about the way things felt. Very odd…like he wasn’t all there…his more valuable pieces missing. He felt (in point of fact) like he was entirely someone else. In his body.

As he lay there, trying to figure out who was in what body—and whether or not he was actually awake—Barrett focused on the room. It gave him the feeling of being wrapped within the arms of a jealous lover. He felt as if he was…smothering…and very much wanting to be smothered. Spying frost on the windows—and noticing the fire in the hearth—he figured it was cold and wintry outside. He then directed his attention to the bed he was in and found himself adrift within a sea of billowy comforters. Rocking his head back, he floated upon huge, down-filled pillows…and there was a tingling in his ears that resonated in his head.

The fire cracked loudly, belching out a rather large fragment onto the hardwood patch of floor before it. The piece glowed quite brightly before momentarily before dying.

Should have had a hearth screen there.

Slowly Barrett came to the only realization that made any sense: that he was, in fact (most assuredly) himself…and that himself was (in fact) the very awake Barrett Bartholomew James.

Whipping off the comforters he swung out of bed and sat upright.

He was clad neck to toe in an archaic, almost comical pair of pajamas. With a chuckle he playfully fingered the material and got to his feet. He headed over to the heavily curtained window. His feet swished through thickly piled carpet that covered the entire floor except for the hardwood spot before the fireplace.

Wiping an opening on the clouded windowpane he peered out…and was greeted by the most pleasant illumination of gas streetlights…from a small but bustling snow-covered town square below. He was on the second floor.

“Where the hell am I?”

Padding back across the room he went to the mantel piece above the fireplace.

Pictures and trinkets, none of which he recognized.

The pictures ranged from the ancient to the current. There were families and there were singular moments. There were—

The bedroom door squeaked open.

“Oh, my! I’m sorry, sir! You’re awake!” It was a pleasant voice from an attractive and unassuming woman in her mid-thirties. He froze. Was caught in his jammies by a woman he didn’t know…in a house he recognized not.

“Who are you?” he asked, “and what is this place?”

“I’m Julie, Mr. James, I run the boarding house you’re in.”

“You know me?”

“Well, indirectly…I was told there would be someone new tonight.”

“You were told? What’s going on, here?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, really—now let me give you your clothes and let you get ready for the evening. There’s dinner awaiting downstairs.”

Barrett watched her glide across the floor to his bed, deposit a set of cleaned and pressed woolen garments, then returned back to the door. He noticed snow boots had already been placed underneath his bed.

“You’ll find a full set of undergarments in the dresser over by the window,” Julie said, pointing. Barrett followed her direction, trying to keep up what little decency he felt he had left. It was tough doing so in garments that had a bomber’s hatch on the seat. “If there’s anything else I can do, please, don’t hesitate to call, Mr. James—”

“Please…’Barrett.'”

Julie smiled. It was a charming smile and Barrett felt his insides grow warm. Things didn’t feel right—they felt good—just not…right.

“Okay…Barrett…,” she said demurely, a thin smile across her lips. Turning just before closing the door, she again addressed him. “Mr. Jam, ah—Barrett—we’re all very pleased to have you join our community.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m pleased to have you.”

Julie quickly closed the door behind her as she left.

“God, if I didn’t know better I’d think she had a thing for me.

“Now, where’s that damned bathroom?”

Treading down firm but creaking stairs, Barrett made his way to the dining room. While in the shower things had begun to surface, though not much, but it was better than nothing. He remembered being a businessman of some kind from “The City.” New York City. He remembered being on vacation into the upstate region…but that was about it. He didn’t know if he had a wife, or a family—though he assumed so since he was wearing a ring, and a very meaty one at that. Maybe he was divorced, or widowed; he just didn’t know.

Walking through the house he smelled the aroma of cooking. Found the heat of another fireplace. And plants were everywhere, even covering one unused piano he spotted in a room he passed by.

Making his way through drapery adorned doorways, his weight caused the hardwood floorboards to squeak. In no time he found the source of the aroma…also finding the dinner table cleaned by the previous users, with but a single food-filled place setting awaiting.

“Oh, there you are,” Julie said, arriving at the doorway. “Please, sit down and eat, Mr. Barrett! I hope you don’t mind that the others have already come and gone, but what with the Coming of Light it seems there’s never quite enough time. Always much too much to do and no one seems to want to wait for anyone anymore, don’t you know!”

“‘Coming of Light’?”

“Oh, nothing to worry about just yet. You’ll see it all in good time.”

Barrett felt his head twinge…as if like a mild headache…but it quickly passed.

“W-what others?”

“Well, as I said, I run a boarding house. It is a most rewarding job, and I really do enjoy helping others relocate—”

“Relocate?”

“I’m so sorry, I know it’s a lot all at once, but please try to bear with me. Look,” she said, extending a hand and leading him to the table, “why don’t you first sit down and get some warm food inside—you haven’t eaten in who knows how long—then we can go out for a walk. It’ll invigorate and aerate and there’s still quite a few hours left before—well, you’ll just love it! We’ll have plenty of time to talk then. Come!” Holding back a smile Barrett allowed himself to be led. Her company really did seem to grow on him.

As he made his way to the table, images flashed through his head, but nothing solid enough for a mental lock. He was as a babe lost in the woods. Wincing a few more times, which Julie didn’t seem to notice, he looked at—really looked at—Julie. It was more than her company he liked—he found her to be quite attractive…especially dressed in her checkered apron and floor length skirt (why such formal attire for everyday wear?), and though he didn’t know her all that well, it was easy to see the openness and warmth her manner radiated.

But it was her eyes…large and warm…which really grabbed him.

He was totally captivated by her spell.

“Well, Julie, I must say—you certainly do have a convincing way about you.”

Julie blushed, bringing a lovely and delicately crafted hand to her mouth.

This was all too much—it was like some damned fairy tale. Nothing’s this perfect.

“You’ll be sure to explain this ‘Coming of Light’ during our walk?” Barrett took his seat at the table.

Julie’s blushing quickly gave way to a look of mixed emotions she quickly changed back to a smile.

“Oh, it’s nothing, really, “she said, “it’s just where the Nightfun ends and the Light comes.”

“You mean ‘dawn,'” he casually muttered, still somewhat preoccupied with the flashing images inside his head. He dug hungrily into the plate of food before him. “You really are a charming woman, Julie—from your mannerisms right down to how you express common everyday things.”

“Thank you, Barrett.” Again, the down-turned head, the endearing blush.

“‘Nightfun,’ huh.”

“…and over there is Pastor’s Church. Isn’t it simply the most beautiful building you’ve ever seen?” Julie asked, pointing a mittened hand.

“It is!” Barrett exclaimed.

It was all beautiful, every bit of it.

And it was snowing!

It was all too beautiful…too perfectly quaint and hometownish…and Barrett again felt that strange something shudder and rattle

(yes, rattle…)

through him—he felt it about the buildings, the people, the town’s atmosphere.

And it all felt disquietly familiar…as though he’d actually been here before…when he damn well knew he hadn’t. It was a tight little microcosm, an entire universe built around the confines of glistening snow and homey neighborliness. A picture-book life and times the way all life should be. Several people passed, surprisingly close, waving.

“Hello, Julie; Barrett! Wonderful weather we’re having, ayuh!” some positively friendly New Englanders greeted. And most New Englanders Barrett knew were not outwardly friendly unless they knew you. Grew up with you. Lived in the same town with you. Julie waved back, returning the greeting.

“Julie…now how did they know my name?”

Hands tight to the front of her jacket, Julie looked up at him with her large brown, positively hypnotic eyes. Something fluttered deep within him.

“Everyone knows you, Barrett. It’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody.”

Barrett found it harder to resist. She was a powerful magnet and he but an iron filing. What was it about this place…about her? He felt…pleasantly uncomfortable….

“Huh? What? I’m sorry, I seem to have forgotten my…question.” Barrett said, flushing a bright red. This is not like me, he thought. Not like me at all!

But what is me?

I don’t—or never used to, anyway—get butterflies in my stomach over a woman. I’m married, sure. Or used to be—or still am, or—I don’t know what anymore!

“God help me!” Barret blurted, hitting out a gloved hand at a light post. Frightened, Julie jumped back several steps. Passing pedestrians gave surprised looks, but quickly turned them into empathetic smiles and continued on. Eyes full of concern, her voice lowered, Julie came back to him.

“Barrett? What’s wrong? Is it something I—”

“No—I-I don’t know—but that’s the whole problem, Julie! Just where am I, and what am I doing here! How did I get here?”

Julie brought her hands up to Barrett’s knotted shoulders. She felt them suddenly relax and it brought an immediate smile to her face. Barrett took her face into his gloved hands. His resistance was quickly faltering.

“Is it so bad here?” Julie asked.

“No, but…where have I come from, what is this place, and who are you to have this power over me?”

Julie didn’t attempt an answer, but Barrett quickly lost interest in the questions and brought her face in closer. “Nobody has ever wielded such control over me. I haven’t felt like this in, well, in God knows how long….”

“Is it so wrong to feel so good? To feel the way you’ve always wanted to feel, Barrett—the way were all meant to feel? Why analyze everything? Why not just be. Just live.”

Barrett felt her warmth through his gloves. Felt the warmth of her soul, penetrating deeper, ever deeper into his soul and trying to bring out…something…and exploit it….

Her lips parted slightly.

Barrett spiraled helplessly downward.

CLANG-CLANG!

It was the church bell.

“Oh! Come on, this is going to be so much fun!” Julie said, pulling away, head thrown back and arms flailing outstretched like a horizontal windmill.

“Why? What’s up?” Barrett asked, looking around.

Julie reached out for him, but then broke away, taking playful steps toward the convergence of townspeople still further up.

“Come on—it’s the skating competition! On Glass Pond! You going to just love it!”

Barrett regarded her with loving consideration, watching her skip off. She was so childlike, so full of energy and desire!

He started off after her…when something else caught his attention.

It was a sparkle…a flash of some kind.

Julie’s back to him, he diverted off towards the flash, to an area where the streetlights and the starless darkness beyond met. Beyond the gas-light haze. Something wasn’t right over there, just up ahead of him. There was an icy tingling playing up his spine as he continued forward.

He felt old aches.

Felt his movement becoming restricted, labored.

He was mere feet from the border when Julie turned, her face immediately draining of color.

“NO!”

She’d stopped dead in her tracks, her mouth a large “O.” A look of dread on her face. Bent forward, her hands were tucked forcefully down between her legs as if she’d had a painful stomach cramp. She repeated her command. Barrett didn’t just stop, he grinded to a halt, his mind’s eye envisioning a mile’s worth of burned rubber left on an open stretch of road.

“Barrett, no—please don’t!”

Barrett turned, frightened more by the unexpected terror in her voice than the actual situation itself.

“What’s the matter? I only wanted to see what was over there?”

Seeing that he stopped, Julie ran for him, arms quickly wrapping him in a tight bundle. Barrett again felt the butterflies.

“Julie,” he began, initially amused, “I didn’t know you cared!”

Julie hung on like a dying woman, her face buried into his shoulders.

“What’s wrong? I was only—you’re crying! My God, whatever I did, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again!”

“I’m sorry—it’s not you, Barrett, but that…that area. It’s off-limits. It’s The Place of Endings…and nobody ever returns who ventures there. I’ve lost…others have been lost there.”

“‘The Place of Endings?’ Julie, you have to tell me what’s going on here—no more cute little euphemisms—I need to know what’s happening. I have to know.”

“I can’t, I—it was…a loved one. It was horrible. Later, please, Barrett, I really can’t go on.” She reburied her face into his shoulder.

“Julie, I like you very much, but I have to know—”

“—please, Barrett, I really…like…you, too, but the memories are too painful. Later I’ll tell you everything, I will, but for now let’s just enjoy ourselves. Please?” Julie’s crystal tears were of such purity that they felt like cold knives of despair ripping through him. He was helpless…he was hers….

“Okay. But after this skating competition of yours, we talk. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Glass Pond looked exactly like its name—shiny, smooth, and unmarked. Barrett was amazed at how reflective and clean the surface was and why there were hardly any marks made by the hordes of skaters flying across it. But possessed by an ever-widening grin across his face, he found himself casually responding to everyone who passed them by. And he did this by name—first and last names. He found that their names magically popped into his head and when he unconsciously began using them, they proved themselves correct. The townspeople were visibly pleased with him.

“Are you enjoying yourself more, Barrett?” asked one elderly couple.

“Why yes, I am, Mr. and Mrs. Greetallski. I really am! I’m finding this to be the friendliest town I’ve ever visited! And the Christmas spirit surely cannot be beat!”

“Well, we’re all very proud to have someone as prominent as yourself taking up residence here,” Mr. Greetallski said.

“And you certainly do add very nicely to the decor!” Mrs. Greetallski chimed in, her rosy cheeks and frosty nose bursting and wiggling with fervent holiday cheer. “He’s a great catch, Julie, be sure to keep on to him and don’t let him get away!” Mrs. Greetallski said to Julie as she leaned into her. Julie flushed into another blush.

“I could get very used to living here, you know,” Barrett said, once the Greetallskis had left.

“I could get very used to you living here,” Julie replied.

Barrett brushed away a few nothings from her face. More people came by, some running and throwing snowballs (one or two of which landed at their feet), and Barrett watched as they passed, their chanting ringing in his ears long after they had past:

“Get ready for the Light, the Coming of the Light! One hour, one hour to go! Get ready for the Light, the Coming of the Light—one hour to go, ho ho ho!”

Julie watched his reactions with a pounding heart.

“What is this—”

“—Coming of Light?”

“Yes! Why is it such a big thing to have the sun rise? Hell, it’s not even near dawn now! Look,” he said, pointing over to the other side of the Apothecary. “It’s dark, pitch dark. Except for the street light glare, there’s not even a hint of a rising sun!”

Julie continued to eye him…that look of confused and caring face. Barrett looked back up into the gas-lit sky. Snow had been falling fairly heavily ever since they had stepped out into the street, but there was hardly any accumulation—in spite of the fact that there was already a fair amount on the ground. Everything looked so perfect.

Planned almost.

Julie came up behind and lay a hand on his shoulder. Barret suddenly realized that he really didn’t care about who he was…or what this whole coming-of-light problem was. All he wanted now was to make his lips touch hers…to taste the firm slipperiness of her tongue and inhale the delicate scent of her breath.

“The Coming is at 6:05 in the morning…,” she began, coming closer.

“Six-oh-five? Exactly?”

“Exactly. There is no dawn, only light.”

Face to face he now felt her breath; felt a tingling; felt her shiver. He shivered.

“…only light…,” he repeated.

A particularly large snowflake landed between their mouths, perched for only a birth of a second before melting. Barrett felt a wellspring of emotion that had been coiled up within the both of them; felt the explosion that now took them away.

Teeth felt teeth.

Passers-by smiled.

He would fit in very nicely here, yes, indeed he would.

“I love you…,” Julie breathed.

“I…I love you, too, Julie.”

“Barrett, I couldn’t bear it should you ever leave! There is no one else here made for me!”

Barrett’s eyes squeezed shut. A lump blocked his throat.

“I won’t. I feel I can’t…but I won’t. I won’t even try.”

“You could; you almost did.”

“But, I won’t.” Then he looked down and noticed the wedding ring on her finger. “You’re my wife, aren’t you.”

“Yes, my husband.”

“But…but, how? You had no ring when we first met—in fact you called me ‘Mr. James.’ This is all too much, I…I’m not sure I can handle it.”

“But you will, my husband, you will! Your love is all, your love is enough. It is all that matters—nothing else does.

“It is time that we talk. Come, let’s walk.”

Julie led him away from Glass Pond and took him down a different street, passing Mrs. Goodall’s Mercantile & Dry Goods (Mrs. Goodall waving vigorously through the window as they passed). They then passed the New England Bank, a small tree nursery that was up on a hill (next to a water tower that boldly displayed “something Towne” around its reservoir, he couldn’t see the first word), a toy shop, village market, and more. Then they stopped. People were taking on more urgency to their steps, several still chanting about the Coming of Light

at six-oh-five

there is no dawn, only bright….

Only fifteen minutes to go!

“I still don’t understand this no-dawn part. Everyplace has a dawn, honey.”

“No, not every place, dear husband.”

“And you mentioned ‘6:05’ like it happens the same time every day.”

“There is only light and dark, my husband. Look.”

The two turned, and Barrett followed Julie’s mittened hand. He followed it to a simple white-painted wood building with an unobtrusive sign hanging above a window.

Barrett James & Company, Realtors.

“T-that’s me!”

Julie raised a gloved hand to his mouth before he could continue further.

“Come, we have only a little more to go. Brace yourself, husband, for what is to come next. Your love for us—this town and myself—will bear you through. Trust us.”

The two rounded a corner, and he found “Julie James Boarding House & Hostel.” In a lower front window rested a real-estate flyer bearing Barrett’s name. This time Barrett didn’t even bat an eye.

Together they walked up the wooden stairs and into the warmth and glowing that was their home.

A light switch flipped on, illuminating a small, novelty-clustered workshop. The owner, a bearded and slightly stooped man, entered, aimlessly throwing the morning paper down on a counter. Shedding his coat, he foraged about for several minutes, looking for something in particular. Going over to the cash register he took out a receipt box, one that had “Paid” written on the front in small, crooked letters and fished through it. Finding the object of his search, he took it out, giving it a sad glance before placing it on the table next to the paper. He looked at one of his clocks.

Six-oh-six.

Casting another grieved look at the paper and the bill he went back out the door.

The front page story, only part of which was visible past the tossed bill, read:

“Famous maverick stockbroker, Barrett B. James, predictor of Black Monday and Wall Street wunderkind died last night in a car crash in the Catskills. He and his family were said to be visiting relatives and friends for the holiday season. Local authorities claimed no one was at fault at the accident. It was a weather-induced accident, inches of snow unleashed in blinding force on already existing icy conditions. The James family could not be reached for comment. Mr. James was apparently en route from a shopping trip…”

Alongside the paper sat the bill of sale. “Barrett James, PAID, one complete Snow Towne village set. AMEX Gold card. To be delivered.”

Not five feet from that table sat a lower display, on which sat Snow Towne. In its center was Glass Pond. Along the edge was Pastor’s Church. The tree nursery was at the center of town, under the shadow of the water tower with the village’s name painted across it. Somewhere, between Glass Pond and Pastor’s Church, rested the porcelain buildings of Barrett James & Company, Realtors, and Julie James Boarding House & Hostel.

All through the village the lights were down…and everyone lay snug in their porcelain beds, dreaming, and waiting for the next cycle of the Coming of Light….

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The World's Greatest Writer

December 11, 2015 by fpdorchak

In One Page. By Infrogmation at English Wikipedia on en his/her summary, — In One Page. By Infrogmation (English Wikipedia on en his/her summary, “typewriter keyboard, from nl wikipedia”; http://www.pdimages.com/X0022.html-ssi, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons)

Enclosed is the really fake true story of the world’s greatest writer. You can’t get this story anywhere else—only from my scoop, and I’m willing to talk.

Wow, such hubris had I back in 2002 (I was actually trying to be funny, since this is the only intentionally funny story I’ve ever written)! I’d sent this to The New Yorker October 13, 2009, and the above was my opening line. I committed some other heinous atrocities in that cover letter I’ll not reveal, but, yeah, I’m sure I pissed of the editor and had my name put into some file of “Never accept anything from this person ever again. EVER.” Sigh. But I was trying to be “in form” for the submitted story. Probably explains why every other thing I’ve sent them fell flat. BTW, there are some definite publishing jibes in here that might also fall flat on those not in-the-know….

This story was originally published in Black Sheep #62, December-January 2005.

The World’s Greatest Writer

“Well, have you ever actually met him?” the doe-eyed initiate asked.

“Uh, nooo, not actually,” the immaculately dressed author-in-white responded, “I’ve been told he’s rather a bit of a hermit, you might say.” The author-in-white nervously fingered his cane and white hat meticulously posed before him.

The young writer nodded thoughtfully, then added, “Okay. So, then, have you ever actually read any of his work?”

At this, the writer-in-white’s ego further deflated, upon which he grew visibly agitated. “Um, no, my dear, I haven’t yet had the opportunity. No one has—”

“Then how do you know he’s such a great writer?” pressed the young one, who held the older writer’s gaze firmly, her manuscript cradled loosely in her arms between them. The young one had not meant to pin the learned author to the wall, but was merely genuinely curious. “How can you say so much about him, when you haven’t ever read his work—or met him?” She furrowed her brow, patiently awaiting an esoteric, scholarly, response.

“I know it’s hard to believe, my dear, but it’s his reputation, you see. Did you know he doesn’t even use a computer? He uses a mechanical typewriter! The gentleman is simply… extraordinary. Exceptional. Have you ever personally met God? The Pope? No…you know of each through faith, through reputation. But that’s what this banquet is all about, my dear young one! He’s coming out, as it were! Don’t let your youth and impetuousness get the best of you! You are yet young—learn! Tonight, here, it is said that he will debut the opening pages to his Great American Novel! I mean, can you fathom this opportunity before you? The miraculous, metaphysical encounter we are all about to be granted? We are going to be the first to experience his words, his energy, his soul. His raw, unfiltered emotional fervor before they are all unleashed upon our common, illiterate, public—we…we are the privileged few. Savor this moment, my dear writer, for you clearly do not comprehend the enormity of greatness upon which you are about to witness. Mark my words: this…will never happen again. In any life time. My God, how I wish I were in your shoes, a lifetime ago, to start over my profession at a much higher place, indeed!”

And with that, the writer-in-white spun away on his heels from the neophyte in search of others with which to intelligently converse. The neophyte watched as the author-in-white discretely dabbed his eyes with a dainty white handkerchief, then quickly spirited it away, back into an inside lapel compartment.

Hugging her manuscript tightly into her chest, the young writer slouched off into a corner to ponder the learned man’s words, when another group of writers, editors, or agents made their way toward her no-longer-empty corner, though not inviting her into their conversation. After all, they did not know her and were too far along in their awe and adoration of I.M.N. Authier III, the unmatched, unparalleled, unequaled literary (and spiritual) prodigy to humanity who had emerged out of nowhere.

Well, Canada, to be precise.

Our young, impressionable writer overheard the entire story, as one of the group informed their newcomer on the miraculousness of what the author-in-white had just tried to impart upon her. This time, she heard…the rest…of the story:

There was not one person who could claim to have actually read a piece of Mssr. Authier’s work. Not even his agent. Mssr. Authier’s agent’s claim to fame was the divine opportunity of which she had been a part: the reception of his skillfully executed proposal package. So masterfully woven was it—and in less than one page—on the whitest and most defect-free twenty-pound paper with the cleanest, crispest TNR type that she immediately fell upon herself in a fit of hot, emotional blithering…which had so cleansed her being that her feline allergies had been summarily obliterated. Immediately, she’d called her estranged mother and apologized for everything cruel she’d ever done, or would ever do, including anything in all her future (or past) lives. Once she read her mother the letter, her mother likewise returned the compliment. The agent then immediately withdrew a sizeable portion of her investments and donated it to Readers Without Books and her top-two choices of battered parents’ shelters. Instead of staying home and reading through the rest of her slush pile, she flew out into the night to the nearest homeless shelter and spent the rest of the night assisting those who begged money for a living.

This, off the power of the esteemed Mssr. Authier III’s epiphianic proposal package (and on one page, no less!). Well, after she called Random House and read his poignant, moving letter to the company’s CEO, the CEO himself called Mssr. Authier, and offered him on the spot. He’d been very convincing. The CEO informed the esteemed Mssr. Authier III in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t take his offer, he was going to resign and take a bullet to the brain that very night. That it was his and his work alone that would make or break Random House—nay the entire publishing industry, sir!—and that it was his moral and spiritual imperative to not let Publishing fall.

Reluctantly, Mssr. Authier accepted.

Random House immediately put into motion a hundred-million-copy print run, foreign, movie, and audio book rights, and an emotionally blistering promotional campaign that rivaled D-Day’s 1944 invasion. Random House also sold a television series and coloring books for adults and children (grades one through four), to be included in the curriculum of all U.S. public schools. Europe was next.

Spielberg was awoken twenty-five minutes later and sealed an undisclosed multi-million dollar deal via The UPS Store’s faxes, securing Mssr. Authier’s signature. The exact fax machine used by Mssr. Authier had since been removed from service and bronzed.

Amazon.com took 110.3 million advance orders.

Mssr. Authier’s agent offered him her hand in marriage.

Dr. Phil asked Mssr. Authier for his advice on a secret, deeply personal matter that had been troubling him for years.

Phil Donahue disclosed a comeback to do one, really final this time, show with Mssr. Authier as the only guest.

Metallica penned a ballad in his honor.

So, as this new group of writers continued to chatter on about Mssr. Authier’s proposed deification, the neophyte found herself so emotionally overwhelmed, especially when certain lines from his proposal letter were refrained (now immortalized by the world and passed around like a veritable Internet Trojan and blowing up YouTube) that she found her soul uncontrollably expanding toward supernova detonation. And when she heard the title of Mssr. Authier’s proposed novel, she positively lost it and ran balling for the lady’s room, where she pulled out her meager manuscript and stared at it in weary, disillusioned judgment.

WWJD?

WWXD?

She grabbed her manuscript in both hands, her heart heavy with all the wasted time and effort she’d poured into this piece of no-name tripe, and viciously and maliciously began rending it into tiny, jagged, tear-stained shreds, amid spastic grunts and shrieks of soulless despair, tossed it into a pile in the middle of the lady’s-room floor, setting it afire.

The young neophyte then, amid the billowing smoke, floating ashes, and now-activated sprinklers of her snuffed manuscript, pulled out a pair of scissors and the razor she always carried, because she was, by trade, a hairstylist, and immediately set about shaving her head and carving Mssr. Authier’s initials into her scalp.

As the clock ticked closer to Mssr. Authier’s scheduled appearance, the entire Radio City Music Hall buzzed over his other ideas for other books. How could he possibly have created a series out of this concept, they asked? Surely his first book would drain everything a reader had to offer? Could a person emotionally survive the first book? Could the editor? Surely Random House would bring in a team of editors, in relay fashion, to take over when the previous ones simply could go no further. Counselors would also have to be brought in, so the buzz went, with fat severance packages to take care of these forever-spent editors who would be of no use to anyone else or themselves, ever again. Yes, Random House would have to take care of them, indeed, it would be their moral obligation to do so, in bringing this genius to the world, and many in this room were willing to so give up their lives to be on that editorial task force, emotional sanity be damned! Every lawyer in the country began to point out that Random House would also be liable to the public for their emotional sanity, as well, once the book hit the shelves, so a non-profit foundation had also been set up.

And what of the cover artist? The jacket copy writer? Marketing and promotion? Accounting? Was Spielberg even up to task? There was talk from his camp that after just storyboarding the film this would be his last project. Anything after this one would be parochially anti-climactic. Useless. With this film, he would have said everything he could ever possibly have to say in this lifetime or any other.

(Unfortunately, Mssr. Spielberg had to decline invitation to the banquet, because he had been so passionately ravaged from production efforts that he had to abruptly seek psychological counseling. Mssr. Authier sent his well wishes.)

Random House, taking the lead, had strategically pre-positioned counselors throughout the convention center, counselors who had, however reluctantly, because they understood the need to do so, shield themselves from Mssr. Authier’s words with the most advanced ear-protection technology available. Nothing was left to chance!

Then it happened, and for just a moment the entirety of Radio City Music Hall fell quiet, as if each person collectively inhaled for the first time since their arrival. The words

“He’s here!”

shot from a watcher posted at the entrance and immediately three women collapsed and five men spilled martinis about themselves.

In no time, Mssr. I.M.N. Authier III’s motorcade pulled up before the convention center and security flooded the gathering. When Mssr. Authier III finally graced the gathering, (amid floods of marriage proposals from both genders) it was as if God Him/Her/Itself had descended from Heaven. Mssr. Authier, dressed in a comfortable tweed sports jacket, with tastefully adorned elbow patches (no self-respecting author would be caught dead in anything else) and sporting his rimless glasses and a calm, soothing smile arrived and was the epitome of graciousness—but was also quite embarrassed. Not only had he no idea his name had already been submitted for both saint- and knighthood, but he also had no idea at the scale of what he’d spun into motion with the delivery of his (one-page!) proposal.

Yet he remained ever gracious as he shook hands and took a genuine interest in all whom he greeted—asking how their children and relatives were doing, did they have jobs, and if not, please, do give him a call, and he’d see what he could do about it, and would they promise him that they would get enough sleep before going back to work on the morrow?

Then one, without warning, wildfire-swift whisper erupted throughout the banquet:

Where was the manuscript?!

Had he come without his words?!

Were they all to be so-callously jilted?

Teased so hotly, only to be summarily slapped without so much as a kiss or a hug? Good God, what had happened? Was it…Writer’s Block?

The crowd again held its collective breath.

He somberly approached the podium, his smile evaporated.

Removing a handkerchief, Mssr. Authier paused, wiped tears from his eyes, then grasped both sides of the podium, stained hanky still clutched in one of his trembling hands. He voice wavered and cracked as he addressed the audience in his wonderfully accented, melodic French-Canadian dialect.

“Ladies and gentlemen…friends. I tried…to keep from…how you say?—breaking down—before all of you, here, tonight, but find…at the last, possible moment…that, mon Dieu!, I am unable to keep from doing so!”

Here he paused, again wiping tears from his hot, swollen face.

“My friends! Let me share with you what had happened to me last night as I flew into Kennedy aéroport….”

And with that, Mssr. Authier III launched into the most heartrending speech anyone in that room (or their progeny) had ever, or would ever, participate in. For two-and-one-half hours Mssr. Authier held the room in rapt captivation. Random House, foreseeing this, had trucked in boxes of Kleenex (TM)-brand tissues—unfortunately for Mssr. Authier’s attendees (and further adding to their emotional turmoil) his likeness was on the sides of each box, promoting his yet-to-be-written novel. People gave up their writing careers following his speech, devoting their lives to the Peace Corps or Green Peace. Half of the counselors working the banquet took early retirement (including those wearing the most-advanced-technology ear protection devices; though they couldn’t hear a single utterance, they didn’t have to…each felt and experienced the emotion that had taken complete hold of that audience that magical evening), and entered therapy themselves. Those with outstanding traffic warrants turned themselves in the next day and insisted upon a minimum of one year of community service for evading the law in paying those fines. So overcome with exhaustion was Mssr. Authier himself at the conclusion of addressing his audience that he had to be assisted from the stage and escorted directly to his awaiting motorcade, where a saline IV drip awaited. Mssr. Authier was submitted for the Nobel and Pulitzer prizes for his oration.

Mssr. Authier later reluctantly agreed to a special interview with Barbara Walters, whom he also brought to tears (at one point they all, including the 20/20 staff and operators behind the camera, were all blubbering unabashedly together on national TV, and it was the first time an entire five minutes of weeping was nationally televised without commercial interruption), where the following was made public:

Mssr. Authier had made the decision, since sending out his (one-page!) query and making his convention center debut that he would not write the proposed book in question. As an aside, Barbara (and she apologized in advance for having to bring this to his attention this way) informed Mssr. Authier that his agent, having been scorned by his lack of amorous advances gave up agenting and had left for India to devote her life to the poor and destitute, vowing a life of celibacy. Following another crying spat, Mssr. Authier used this as an example and was further quoted as saying that after having witnessed the effects of his words upon the world he had no choice.

The only moral and ethical thing to do was to not pen the novel.

The world was simply not ready for it. He was not ready for it.

The world (he cited tearfully) could not handle his words and he could not handle the world, after having seen the impact his letter and presence has had.

Barbara begged him to reconsider. Literally begged. But, no matter how heartrending, how needed, how emotionally brutal and true his proposed book he maintained he could not in all good conscience do it. It wouldn’t be fair to humanity.

Mssr. Authier also decided to return all his advance monies that he’d kept untouched (in a separate numbered account) despite Random House’s vehement objections. He deserved every penny, Random House countered (with several of their A-list authors also having offered up their own advances and royalties so Random House could make the author advance). Mssr. Authier said thank you, and donated all that had been given him to world hunger organizations.

And, finally, Mssr. Authier vowed to never, ever, propose to pen another book…ever again.

At this point Barbara lost all composure and decorum and pleaded with him to reconsider, as did her producers and a camera people.

But he held firm and declined, laying a hand to her shoulder.

Following the interview, Mssr. Authier quickly disappeared into seclusion, never to be heard from again.

Spielberg’s film adaptation of his proposed novel that had never been written created box-office records that, to this day, have never been broken. Spielberg, as promised (and recovering nicely in extended therapy), quietly retired…donating all proceeds from the film to the International Red Cross.

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